


You're Not Intruding

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slight AU version of the opening scene in Dead Man's Treasure. Mrs. Peel makes an early morning booty call...</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not Intruding

"Perhaps I'm intruding?"

“You’re not intruding.”

Steed stepped out of the way and caught a whiff of her perfume as she passed – there was something about it that bypassed his conscious mind, made him feel a bit light-headed, as though he’d just swallowed a glass of champagne in one draught. But she generally had that effect on him.

“Why the midnight vigil?” she asked, bringing the glasses in from the kitchen.

“I’m expecting Bertie Danvers.” He watched as she undid the foil on the top of the champagne.

“Ah. Hush-hush?”

“Not really. Just some papers I’m supposed to pass on to the elders and betters tomorrow.”

The cork shot off the bottle and foam spilled over her hand before she managed to get a glass under it. Steed cleared his throat.

“And you’re out rather late, my dear.”

“Embassy party.”

“That’s right, of course. Enjoy yourself?”

“Not in the slightest.”

She sat down on his sofa and crossed one long leg over the other. It was was easy to be distracted by the slightest thing that she did: the way she held her free hand at her side, the sheen on her lips from the champagne, the smooth movement with which she crossed her legs. Like watching a dance without music. 

“I wish you’d been able to come,” she said.

Steed’s eyebrow raised. He hadn’t been able to come solely because he was supposed to be at home to pick up the papers – papers that should have arrived hours ago.

“Mmmm, I do like champagne,” Emma murmured, grinning without showing her teeth.

That was it: she was drunk! Well, not drunk, a trifle tipsy; a sheet to the wind, perhaps. Steed suddenly regretted his own sobriety.

“John, why don’t you come and sit down?”

She patted the sofa beside her as she craned her neck to look at him. Definitely tipsy. She only called him John when she’d had one glass too many…or they were in bed, which was demonstrably not the case here.

Nevertheless, John Steed did not disappoint a lady. He went and sat a decorous distance from her, holding his champagne flute between two fingers to further emphasize his total nonchalance. She smiled at him, not a friendly smile but …well, for lack of a better term, a seductive one. Her big brown eyes narrowed, masked slightly by her long eyelashes, and she played unconsciously with the ends of her hair. By God, but she was beautiful. More than that, of course, intelligent and humorous and generous and kind, but for the nonce he was more occupied with her beauty than anything else – because through that all the others shone, her heart beamed out through her smile and her lovely eyes showed all the wonder of her soul. He’d once written a very school-boyish poem about it – his one and only attempt at the literary arts – and in a fit of ego read it out to her. She’d laughed, but she also insisted on a copy which she now kept in her top dresser drawer.

“Steed,” she said, extending her arm along the back of the sofa towards him. Not John any more, then.

“Mrs. Peel?” he replied, grasping at the last vestige of distance between them.

Not that it made much difference: last name basis or not, she scooted partway down the sofa. He could sense, if not quite feel, the warmth of her body, smell the scent of her shampoo, and see the very definite roses in her cheeks that reminded him 1) that she had had too much to drink and 2) he was a gentleman.

Very easy to forget, though, when she ran her nail along the lapel of his dressing gown, and said in that deep, sultry voice,

“All ready for bed?”

Steed cleared his throat. “Mrs. Peel…”

“What is it, John?”

She’d taken his lapel between her fingers, tugging on it, drawing him closer. Impossible, especially when she called him John. Even a gentleman has his limits.

He kissed her, or she kissed him. She tasted of champagne. Her tongue touched his and retreated, a tease. Her chest rose and fell against his, the hint of her clothed breasts driving him to distraction. Steed brought his hands up into her hair and pulled her close and filled himself with her. He thought about his big empty bed upstairs, and the smell of her on his sheets; he wanted her to be in it. With the last remnant of his better conscience, he broke the kiss.

“You’ve…had too much…to drink…” he said, but his words kept being interrupted when she kissed his jaw, his neck, the pulse beating in his throat.

“I’m perfectly sober,” she murmured, her teeth scraping his skin.

“That’s a lie.”

“Do you want me to walk a straight line?” She had a hand on his thigh, precariously close to what was turning into an uncomfortable erection.

“I don’t…” He wasn’t quite sure what he didn’t. Want to take advantage her? Was it taking advantage? There was a slight grey area here, given that she seemed entirely in command of her faculties, had, in fact, intended this from the moment she appeared on his doorstep.

“I know exactly what I’m doing.” She drew away and looked up at him with apparently clear eyes. “Take me to bed, John.”

When all was said and done, John Steed did not believe in disappointing a lady.

Though it could not really be said that he took her to bed. She took him, leading the way up the winding staircase to his room, stopping by his bed to remove her delicate, flat-soled shoes. Then her earrings, dropping them onto his bedside table as she always did. He’d amassed quite a collection of her earrings, forgotten in the morning. He wondered if she had any still left at her flat.

Steed shed his dressing gown and removed his tie and cufflinks, but never took his eyes from her. How many times had they done this, sometimes undressing one another, sometimes watching from afar? He’d lost count. She was so lovely and yet, for the moment, so distant. The way she undressed, she might have been alone.

“Undo me, will you?”

She turned her back to him and lifted her hair. He stepped up behind her and undid the clasp at the top of her dress. As he drew the zipper down, revealing the soft freckled skin of her upper back, the erection that had somewhat subsided since the sofa returned with a painful eagerness. He drew her against him and pressed his mouth to her neck to savor the taste of her skin. A minute purr came from her throat, but she moved away enough to snake her arms out of the sleeves and drop the dress to her feet. Her bra went with it and she turned, taking hold of him and pulling him down to the bed with her.

They kissed, languorous moments as his hands explored her nearly naked body beneath him. He loved her breasts, as he loved all of her – the soft roundness, small and perfect; the pink nipples that turned a rosy color when he took them between his lips, making her purr again.

But even as he indulged his senses with her, he felt her fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, occasionally descending lower to worry at his belt buckle. He would have to move.

Tearing himself away, Steed stood up and quickly unbuttoned his shirt, dragging it from his trousers and tossing it over a chair. Emma sat up, smiling, her face a tad flushed from the champagne and, he hoped, from the foreplay. When he undid his belt and kicked off his trousers, she moved to the side of the bed and pulled him towards her by the hips. She finished stripping him, pausing to press a teasing kiss to the very tip of his penis – enough, though, to force a keening little groan from his throat. She laughed and so did he, even as they scrambled under the sheets together. For all its serious pleasure, there was something a trifle comical about sex, but Steed rarely laughed as much with a woman as he did with her.

He was not going to let her have everything her own way, though. He wanted to taste her and so he did, wriggling down under the covers until he could spread her legs and slip his head between them. Another shot to the ego to find that she was as aroused as he was – even more gratifying were the sounds she made as he licked and kissed her, once more filling himself with her.

“Yes,” she groaned, holding his head. “Oh God, John.”

He redoubled his efforts to push her past the place where words were even possible, to bring her to the moment when all she could do was moan and cry, begging him without recourse to speech. He loved her taste too – sweet with a touch of salt, a smell and flavor all her own. It made him harder, knowing how much he pleased her, feeling her squirming beneath him, her genitals inflamed and even pulsing with a rhythm of their own. He felt her come with a deep intake of breath followed by a cry that was deep and bestial and more beautiful than Brahms. She lay inert beneath him for a moment, breathing heavily, limp fingers entwined in his hair.

Then she pulled on him, drawing him up with her arms around his back. She kissed him, happy to taste herself on him. More kisses, endless, arousing, as she touched him and stroked him, played with the hairs on his chest, rolled his nipples between her fingers, traced the length of his spine with her long nails, all the while holding him between her legs so that he could feel her heat and wetness. Finally he raised above her and split her with the fingers of one hand, guiding himself in with the other. It was perfect, she was perfect, she fit him, took all of him. But she set the pace, rising and falling underneath him, and he timed his thrusts accordingly. There were few pleasures so great as being inside of her, though he wished he could touch her everywhere at once.

Before long she rolled him, settling herself on top with the same rhythm, and he loved that too – being able to see her above him, magnificent, her body heaving him, her eyes closed in concentration. Pleasure as rough and intense as an electric shock ran up and down his body, so close to exploding and breaking him apart. He sat up and clung on to her, forcing himself as deep and as fast as he could, and he heard her cry out right before he was lost to everything but his own throbbing orgasm.

As always with their more intense rounds of lovemaking, neither of them spoke or moved for many minutes. They were content in the mere closeness and the perfection of being, for as long as they could be, one person.

Emma was the first to move, rolling off him and to his side, and he turned to put his arms around her.

“Your courier friend might be worried,” she said.

Steed smiled. “Some things take precedent over Queen and Country.”

“I take it I wasn’t intruding.”

“My dear Mrs. Peel, you are never intruding.”


End file.
